


New Year

by anti_ela



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Ficlet Collection, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-10-23 03:15:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10711023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anti_ela/pseuds/anti_ela
Summary: Or: Three Times Matt Tried to Be Subtle, He Really Did, and One Time He Gave Up“You have a bed, Matt. A bed and silk sheets. And a toaster.”Matt shrugs. “I don’t really need anything else.”





	1. Chapter 1

I.

“You have a bed, Matt. A bed and silk sheets. And a toaster.”

Matt shrugs. “I don’t really need anything else.”

Foggy huffs, taps Matt’s hand, and then places his hand in the crook of Matt’s arm. They start walking up the stairs. “Well, I need you to have a couch and a coffee table. Besides, what will your girlfriends think if you bring them here? You’re going for bare and industrial, Matty, not empty warehouse at the edge of town.”

“If my lack of furniture bothers you, we could meet at your apartment.”

They go through the door. “I’m not hosting your orgies for you. Do you have your keys?”

They pause while Matt feels his keys to find the right one, and then there’s a small window of time while Matt locks the door. When they start again, Matt puts his hand on Foggy’s arm.

“I don’t, I mean… Have you ever thought about, um, a keypad lock?”

“The only decent ones are hundreds of dollars, Foggy.”

“Right, right, sorry. Forget I asked.”

* * *

II.

Christmas trees irritate him. They’re constantly moving their little spikes. Always scraping needles against needles, smelling like drying sap and rotting wood. And, faintly, dirt. If he wanted to smell dirt, he’d go to New Jersey.

Just the worst.

Foggy can’t seem to tell. “What do you think?”

“It’s fine,” Matt says.

“Wow,” Foggy says. “Fine. You must love it. Man. What a review.”

“Well, I don’t have any decorations,” he replies, hoping there’s nothing in the boxes Foggy set down in the hall.

A vain hope. If there’s one thing Franklin Percival Nelson knows, it’s that Matt would not have mismatched Christmas ornaments from goodwill.

“This one’s a redneck reindeer, which you obviously needed.” He places it in Matt's palm. “It says ‘gone fishing’ in a charmingly misspelled way.”

Matt feels it, though he already knows—”Buck teeth?”

“A stereotype _and_  a pun. A bargain at 50 cents.”

“I thought we were going for modern sexy millennial who perhaps has some taste and at least a little money.”

“The other eleven months, sure. But in December, I want everyone to know that I get to decorate your place. It’s a dominance thing, see.”

“Your hands have been all over? That kind of thing?”

“Yep!”

Matt tilts his head, trying to put colors to the shape of Foggy perched on a kitchen chair, reaching to put the tacky thing in a prime position. The other knickknacks twist slowly on their branches. He turns, taking it all in—the candles permeating the air with the smell of sugar cookies, the velour stockings hanging on his oven door, the plastic windsock elf that God should have unmade the moment it was conceived.

He turns back to his friend, only just now satisfied with the ornament’s placement. Foggy’s wobbles as he climbs down, and Matt’s at his elbow before he remembers he’s not supposed to notice, and Foggy leans a little against him, and the slight difference in their height is just enough that Foggy looks up at him, and yeah, okay, this is starting to be a problem.

But hell.

“I like it,” he says. “Feel free to put them anywhere.”

Then steps away and faces the middle distance between the tree and the window with the sign he’ll never be annoyed by.

“Of course,” he continues, “it needs more tinsel.”

Foggy swallows. “Tinsel. Yes.”


	2. Chapter 2

III.

_Foggy. Foggy._

Matt scrubs his hair with the towel and wraps it around his waist.

_Foggy. Foggy._

Why does he put the phone stupid places?

_Foggy. Foggy._

Other people have a system. He should get a system.

He picks up the phone and fumbles with the answer key. "Hey, Foggy," he says, holding the phone out so he doesn't drip on it.

"Matthew Murdock, my son informs me that he has not specifically invited you for dinner."

"Uh, no, Mrs. Nelson."

"Of course, he thinks you know you're invited anyway, because he assumes he's invited places. For example, he assumes he's invited to Christmas dinner at my house if he doesn't invite you, specifically, every year. Isn't that funny of him?"

"Uh—"

"Someday, I hope you know you belong at every family dinner. It would be a balm to my heart. Until then, my boy is going to take the time to say 'Matt, please come see my poor mother, who loves and misses you.' Aren't you, Foggy?"

In the background, Foggy says, "Mom, please..."

She continues, "I'm not mad at you, Matty. Dinner starts in forty-five minutes. I'm sending Foggy to pick you up."

"Thank you, Mrs. Nelson."

She hangs up, and he holds the phone in his hand.

The first year, when Foggy had asked what his plans for Christmas were a week before the break, he'd shrugged. "Midnight Mass." But no, Foggy had clarified, he meant what were his fun plans. "Are you suggesting Mass isn't fun?"

It was determined that going home with Foggy was not optional.

It was... nice. Good. Wonderful, even, with Foggy's family stuffed into the apartment. Enough people that he didn't expect to be noticed. The bad singing, the clack of dominoes, the smell of food and pine, real pine. (There were just a few boughs over the door. Who the hell could afford a whole tree anymore?)

He shakes his head. The tie—he has to wear the tie.

Matt sets the phone down and walks to the closet. He thumbs the cards in each jacket ("gray," "charcoal," "black") and selects the most festive ("charcoal, silver pinstripe"). The button-up shirts are all the same, and most of the ties were interchangeable. One, though, was labeled "silver, white snowflakes, Mrs. Nelson."

He's tying the knot when Foggy knocks. "Come in," he calls.

It takes a moment for Foggy to turn the knob. When he does, he opens the door slowly, then huffs and walks in. "It was supposed to creak ominously."

"It's oiled."

"Serial killers, Matty."

"Your parents' place is fifteen minutes away, and I unlocked it two minutes ago. Also, I know kung fu."

"As if roving murderers have never taken a tae kwon do class."

Matt walks into the living room and brushes his fingers through his hair. "Presentable?"

Foggy breathes in sharply. "Yeah, man. You know I'm just wearing a T-shirt and jeans, right?"

Matt smiles. "Well, one of us has to be the good one."

"I wouldn't mind knowing what that feels like, just once."

Matt ascends the steps. "Too cold for basketball shorts? Sorry, jorts."

"Shut up. That was one time. I don't even have them anymore."

Foggy stuffs his hands in his pockets while Matt puts on his coat ("black, cedar buttons"). Matt brushes his thumb against the middle button: round, wooden, old. He can feel the grain where the varnish is thin with age. The coat itself has subtle reinforced stitching around the seams, and it smells like winter in New York. Probably time to get it dry cleaned again.

Foggy says, "Did you really not..."

Matt ducks his head, puts on the scarf ("red, matches glasses, Mrs. Nelson").

"You're my family, Matt," he says. His voice is soft. Close.

He isn't lying.

But when Foggy's not here, when the apartment's empty, when Matt is alone and has time to think about it all—that's when he knows. That's when the tower presses against his chest. That's when the certainty fills his lungs, pumps through his heart, poisons every cell it touches. That's when he knows that Foggy will hate him someday.

He smiles at Foggy, eyes hidden behind the glasses. "Can't a guy get an invitation anyway? I don't ask for much: embossed letters, golden seals, perfumed paper. My name in the society papers. Your ring on my hand, some bells, a choir." Matt holds out his hand.

Foggy stares at him for a beat, then guides Matt's hand to his arm. "You're stupid. That coat is stupid. You look like a fancy grandpa."

"Well, at least I'm fancy."


End file.
